when we met that night in Barcelona was working or doing what they do
The moon was hiding behind some random cloud. Street lights were changing as we walked past conversations
Whether it was: "Where are we going?" or "How are you tonight?" or "Did you see that bastard?"
We sauntered past a medley of Yesterdays. Our feet seemingly carried our souls with a lack of traditionality. Or maybe, our mortality was whispering and beckoning us to follow.
The listening apparatus
Is silent –
Ahead of sound –
Your eyes gush
Like awakened
Blake.
From: kolkata, west bengal, India
About me: What would I be saying If I said, ‘The sky is true’? Would the dream pass more slowly If I lowered my voice, bassooned my vowels? No end to wonder, I find, And the evening mist is still. I talk in allegory when I speak to myself. I walk up the hill – my spirits rise. The process ‘saying’ again Is always about itself, about something Other than its content Its statement and assertion. I reach with every word For the truth of what I find— I miss and then I say something else. The reader, myself included, Gets only the altered after-saying. Where is the sky in all this--? The measure wavers – the link is broken – Disturbed, a trial of what is, Wanders, palpitates, grows worn In its youth— Like a design by William Morris Or brothel in Joyce’s arcane language.
